By: Aiden Krysciak, PR coordinator for president Joy Johnson
The following is a letter from the desk of SFU president Joy Johnson, delivered to The Peak by her majesty’s propaganda ministry — we mean PR team.
Strung out, I was, deep as that very night when the visitation occurred. I stopped and watched in terror as the sky broke open and the light reflecting off the moon and stars were again diffused in this miasma which had materialized in the AQ-green. Soon, foreign and equally terrifying vocalizations filled the air and slowly. As I walked closer, pulled by that freakish leash of fate, these vocalizations formed words and “laughter.”
Upon the glacis rested a smoky apparition: some students, surely possessed by that communist poison — “marijuana.” I watched from the shadows for fear of my life and was, therefore, too far to hear really any of what they were saying. I can only deduce that what must have been spoken was threatening to me, this noble school, and to Simon Fraser himself, who bravely followed the River Fraser for the glory of the white man. It was surely communistic sentiment expressed by those sinister upward turnings of the mouths and revolting dimpled contortions each youngster wore upon their face. If not that, then full-blown revolutionary conspiracy.
Well I’ll tell you, gentle reader, and I’ll tell you better than you’ve ever been told before. Believe you me that I followed these goddamn hippie agitators in their goddamn realtree hoodies and their goddamn sailor caps and goddamn sneaker shoes — and I saw those fucking scoundrel ne’er-do-wells paint upon the walls of our already-compromised-by-communistic-interpretation-architecture words that I have never before seen or heard. These etchings made in chalk on our concrete walls elicited such nightmarish meanings: “You’ve got this!”; “Stay positive?” Messages that mocked our school such as: “Concrete?” OF COURSE IT’S CONCRETE you absolute — anyways.
I could hardly comprehend the filthy and fucking straight up disgusting “socialization” rituals of this evil-ass sect of Anglo-American culture. It makes me, the provost, and this monument to our glorious imperial forefathers genuinely want to RIP OUR EYES OUT OF OUR SKULLS. I wish I were fucking jokin’, but no; I just hate my students that much. If academia wasn’t so sensitive, I’d have already used all of these children as target practice for our first annual Simon Fraser battle simulator/LARPing sesh.
It’s now been three days since I saw these two abominations on campus, and I still cannot bring myself to leave this office. I sit here as I feel my last caffeine pill wear away and my mind drift farther from reality . . . and closer towards lofty thoughts of heaven. Oh, to be free from this misery of having to justify every decision to the lousy press! To no longer have to bear the malfeasances of these wretched children! These may be my last words, and if so, may they empower the few students with some actual gumption to fight this scourge of communism.
